by Ash Krafton
The hulking mass of redhead turned west on Baker. Simon glided behind him, unseen. He wanted to snare him, interrogate him, turn him inside out until he gave up everything Simon needed to know. And with the passing of every block, he realized something else: he hated him.
He flat-out loathed, despised, atomic-rage hated him. For no reason. None he could figure, anyway. The feeling just washed over him like a boiling rain, soaking him with seeping hate. By the time they got to the aquarium, he was drowning in the angry red roil.
He reached up to rake back his hair but stopped, startled, just short of burning his face off. His hands were coated in greasy blue flames. Hellfire. He didn't even remember summoning it. Quickly, he rolled his hands beneath his armpits, stifling the flames. Thank God he was more or less invisible.
But, dammit. That little bit of lighting up had cost him. The guy was gone, lost in the traffic.
Simon closed his eyes in despair. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He stood on the corner, trying to look everywhere at once. All this way, only to lose him in a crowd of tourists.
"Simon." Mack pressed a hand to his elbow. "You were difficult to locate. I assume you have located a lead?"
"That was him, Mack. That was the face from my vision. Back in Boston." Simon slumped against the wall, wishing he wanted a smoke, just for something to do with his hands. His hands itched for action but, when the simple act of snapping your fingers made them burst into hellfire, a guy had to look for a different outlet for nervous energy.
Mack peered around, seeking the stranger, eyes narrowed with scrutiny. "There was a presence back there, before you vanished. He was not human."
"That's just fricken great. What is he? A gargoyle? Minotaur?"
"He is an…" Mack's voice trailed off as if he were being gently strangled.
"An?" He prompted him with a rolling-hands gesture.
"Extremely formidable opponent." Mack slid his hands into his pockets.
Simon hadn't even known that angel clothes had pockets. He'd sort of figured he'd only had leather pouches hanging from his belt, a la the nearest Ren faire.
Wait. Did Mack even wear a belt? Honestly. Sometimes he doubted the dude even wore shoes, he was so rustic. "So, that's it? You look like you've seen a ghost, or whatever it is that scares the pants off an angel, and all I get is ‘extremely formidable opponent'? Why does this scene feel so familiar?"
"Enough foolishness, Simon. This is very grave. I must deliver something unto you."
His eyebrows went up. "Uh, oh. I don't like it when you talk Biblical."
"You must take this." Pulling his hand out of his pocket, Mack held out a small bundle of faded, rough-weave fabric, secured with a thin strand of fraying rope.
"A present? For me?" Simon gave it a scouring look without taking it. "Who gift wrapped it? Medieval Pier 1 Imports?"
"It is a relic."
Oh, was that all? Simon relaxed and let go of the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "You mean, a charm."
"It is a relic, not a charm."
"You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to—"
"I say relic." Mack looked grumpy. "And so you shall say, also, if you want this to be effective. It's not just the relic; it is the faith and piety you put into it that makes it powerful."
Simon huffed. Angels could be so hoity-toity sometimes when it came to the divine stuff. "Fine, whatever. Relic. Let me see this great big fricken relic, then."
Mack placed it gently into Simon's open hand like it was a baby. Or an unexploded land mine.
At this point in the game, neither would surprise him. "Do I open it?"
The angel almost gasped. "No! You just—do not unwrap it. It has been preserved in this way for more than a thousand years. Just because humans are temporary they think everything is disposable."
"It looks like something a peasant would have played with, if he could actually afford a dirty rag on a stick."
"Simon." Aghast, Mack's voice dropped to a bruised whisper. "You are holding the blessed remains of a Saint."
All the jokes ran out of him like boggy water from a cooler the day after a tailgate party. Suddenly, he felt like he actually was holding a baby or an unexploded land mine. Quite possibly, a baby playing with an unexploded land mine.
This wasn't just a relic. It was a Relic relic. The real deal.
And he knew it was the real deal, because his hand had started to sting, a tight line of pain that went from his palm to his tattoo. An allergic reaction of the unearthly kind.
He stowed the bundle into his inside pocket, hoping that his jacket was enough to keep it from singeing his chest. "You just remember you had this on you or is it a bit of emergency preparedness?"
"You must prepare yourself for the worst. A struggle lies ahead."
"Oh, good. A struggle. Just what I need. Thank God I have you." He shrugged at Mack's disapproving look. "What? Seriously. God sent you here, right? I'm thanking Him."
"It sounds more like your usual sarcastic humor."
"It's called gratitude, Mack."
"Yes. Gratitude. A noble expression, when genuine. I must perform reconnaissance. Do not get into trouble." Mack stepped backwards into the sudden fog of his wings, dissipating on a breeze.
Simon rubbed his arm, which still twinged from his brief contact with the Divine relic. "Sheesh, angels."
Crossing his arms, he settled more comfortably against the building and surveyed the sidewalks once more, looking for the man to reappear. Watching, and waiting.
Things an angel did. Not exactly the standard Simon ever thought he use for self-comparison.
His Sight flickered, occasionally painting shadows over people as they drove by, and he tried unsuccessfully to avoid comparing himself to one angel in particular, one who had Fallen way back at the start of it all.
Watching, and waiting. He was doing it, too, from His place below. The shudders that ran down Simon's body were cold, so cold. So unlike the city that promised something else would burn, and soon.
Luminea replaced the crystal stopper and set down the carafe. The light glinted off the exquisite faceting, illuminating the pale amber liquid within. Sometimes, it was satisfying simply to admire the wine.
Sometimes, however, it was necessary to consume it. Tonight was such a night. To use the vulgar vernacular, she needed a stiff drink.
Zophiel had spent the remainder of the day scouting for a new host. She wouldn't have thought it such a trial; Atlanta was a wealthy city. No calloused fishermen or bow-backed farmers here. Men lived easy lives with their computers and luxury office spaces and salons.
What exactly was Zophiel looking for, anyway? How high were his standards?
She lightened a bit. As high as hers. There was no other way. What she wanted was what he wanted. In all things. Until the end.
A new host body would be no different. He would search until he found exactly what she wanted. It was for that reason she did not reprimand him for taking so long to accomplish this task. Good things took time.
Like this wine, she thought, as she gently swirled her glass, the golden vintage shimmying against the sides of the crystal like a tiny tide. Good wine cannot be rushed. Age is its advantage.
Zophiel had politely refused to join her in a nightcap, choosing to remain standing aloof as she lounged upon her settee, gazing out at the twilight that settled over the cityscape. Nightfall was a gentle event in Atlanta, the sun clinging to the skies in the west as if it were reluctant to leave the world behind. Artificial stars twinkled in the forest of tall buildings and the canyons of the streets.
His voice had a quiet contentment when at last he spoke. "Do you remember our first day?"
She smiled and exhaled a bemused laugh through her nose. "I remember Taylor. I had grown fond of the old goose."
"No. Not Taylor. Our first day. When you looked upon me and knew it was me."
This time, she remained quiet. Her gaze froze on the horizon, no longer registering the play of a dying suns
et on cold steel. She did remember. She remembered everything…
She woke from the dream in which he appeared to her, gave her detailed instructions on what to do to facilitate his manifestation. He had told Luminea it was he who had appeared as the old fisherman Taylor. It had been he that struck down the drunken brute and rescued her.
He had told her he could do it again—he could take another body, this time one not so frail, not so old. She could choose his next host.
Perhaps Zophiel had meant it as an enticement, a lure to convince her to go along with his plan.
Little had Zophiel known that she had chosen someone, even before she had a plan. All her schemes to consolidate power for herself had been proceeding well and she knew that in order to further her operation, she needed more power, more wealth. She had reached her limits on her own. It was time to expand.
It was time to align herself with a mortal who could provide the materials she needed. And she had just the man in mind.
A frequent visitor to the harbor, Lord Wellton was the aristocrat who collected rents from Bristol's residents. He collected duties and taxes from the ship merchants, royalties from the marketers, rents from the farmers. He had land and wealth and harbor. And, more importantly, he had an unmarried firstborn son.
The young lord was handsome, healthy, and of good cheer. He also had an eye for beautiful women. His gaze had settled upon Luminea many a time but never spared a word. She was not highborn, as he understood the term. She was worth no more than appreciative looks. Only a woman of status would catch his conversation and, subsequently, his hand.
It had been an obstacle to her plan. How would she, an unwed mother, a commoner, a laborer, claim the attention of a human with so elevated a status?
Little had Zophiel known that he would provide her with the key to that locked door.
She had no deliveries to make that day. Instead, she wore her cleanest gown, using Enochian magic to bleach it light and cast a sheen to it, to illuminate the fabric just a little more. She combed and braided her long tresses, wrapping and piling them upon her head with a tumble of ringlets. She had no gown cut from expensive material. She had no tiara of precious metal. But she had beauty, a natural beauty, and she used it to her fullest advantage.
When she went to town, Lord Wellton and his son were at business. Everyone stopped to stare at her. Whispers behind hands. Admiring looks.
And a young lord who stared, agape, amazed to behold such a vision in so rough a town.
She approached the Lord's horses, her gaze set elsewhere, as if her business called. The young lord slid down off his saddle and bowed to her.
"You are in need of an escort, my lady," he called. "Pray, allow me to obtain one for you."
She feigned humility and bowed her head. "Your kindness is much appreciated, my lord. May the angels watch over you."
She watched a change shudder through him as he blinked, seeming to wake from a dream. He patted his chest, looked at his hands, rubbed his shoes against the crushed stone before seeking her eyes. "I believe I already have been blessed, for you are a vision of the Divine. I am at your service."
Zophiel had taken him, just as he'd said in her dream. She knew it with absolute certainly. Although she watched him ride away with his "father", she knew she had only to wait until he returned for her.
She had known he was angel inside a stolen human body. She knew it wasn't part of the natural order. It mattered very little. He was someone who understood her, the only being in her world that truly understood her plight. He had begun making daily trips to the harbor, spending hours with her, taking long walks in town and along the shore. Once safely away from the prying ears of the town folk and his disapproving father, she begged him to stay.
Zophiel did as she asked.
He kept the body as a permanent host, assuming the man's life and station. Eventually, he'd overruled his father's wished for a propitious marriage and brought Luminea and her daughter to his purloined country estate. She remembered the grand arrival he'd made in his carriage when he came to collect them. She allowed herself the full glamour of her Enochian power, no longer fearing whispers of witchcraft or devilry.
Her days sewing in a thatched hut in the middle of a filthy wood were over. Her star was rising. Soon, her schemes would advance once more.
And they did, with a meteoric flash.
Outwardly, in face of his family and household, Zophiel played the role of benefactor. To do otherwise would raise suspicions.
Inside, he was above all things an angel. A servant. Now, he simply redirected his service to Luminea.
She'd quickly deduced he was absolutely enthralled with her, and she used it to her advantage. She played him, coerced him, and kept him in check, all the while doling out small favors to keep him satisfied.
Like a puppy.
"Madam?"
His voice startled her. Madam. When exactly did he start using that title? Must have been after they began accumulating staff. He kept order that way, made sure everyone knew who was truly the one in charge.
She alone knew the truth. An Enochian could never best a pure-blooded angel. Enochians were tainted with the weakness of mortality. And she'd been tainted by things far worse than human blood.
But he did not know that. He was as enthralled with her now as he had been right at the beginning. His devotion grew deep strong ensnaring roots. She would always dominate him, in all ways.
She smiled, broadly and sharp. Didn't that just throw a wrench into the Grand Design? She smoothed her expression before turning around.
"I was just remembering, Zophiel. I remember what it was like to finally find safety and security in your embrace."
"Even before, I had watched and protected."
"Yes…but there is a great difference between watching and doing. Speaking of which…" She tapped her lower lip with a slim finger. "There is doing to be done. I think you shall find her awake."
Simon never sleepwalked. Not even as a kid, when he'd done enough dumbness and seen enough horror to have earned sleepwalking privileges for the rest of his life.
He should be asleep in a Hilton, lulled to sleep by the drone of the elevator in the wall next to his room, wondering what Georgians had against sufficient air conditioning.
Yet, here he was, standing at the edge of Chiara's silver pool. Not knowing how he got there, or when, or why. He rubbed his mouth, feeling the stubble of new beard. Most decidedly, there was no good reason he could give as to why because this was the last place he wanted to be.
The surface of the silver water shimmered. He took a wary step back. Not in a hurry to go through that looking glass again.
But the curiosity was so strong, so alluring. No; it was more than curiosity. It was a calling that resonated through him, like the voice of a loved one. That beckoning wasn't an easy thing to ignore, no matter how many alarms were going off.
He leaned over, seeing his reflection in the stillness of the glass-like surface. It shimmered again, blurring his image. When the water stilled, his appearance had changed. Only took a long stupid moment to realize it wasn't his reflection anymore.
It was the Morningstar, eyes gleaming with a hot-white glow.
His voice was more in the head than in the ears. Luminea plans to damage Chiaroscuro. You must not let that happen.
Damage. What a weird word. Divinities used the oddest vocabulary. Simon shook his head, trying to focus. Not like this was the time or place for a lazy chat. "How can I stop her? She's Enochian. And she's got a goon that pretty much made my Watcher soil his divine trousers. Safe to say she's not going to be an easy fight."
No. Which is why you need my help.
The water rippled over Lucifer's face and a small object bobbed to the surface, floating. A tiny glass vial, stoppered with a bit of cork, floated over to the edge of the pool, right in front of him.
"Message in a bottle?" Simon plucked it from the water, peering at the object trapped inside the glass.
>
You know what you must do.
And, just like that, Simon knew. The knowledge was suddenly just there, in his head, like a brick that wouldn't budge.
He knew exactly what he would do and it went against every fiber in his being. His muscles began to tremble as if his electrical had gone haywire. "Why? Why do I have to do it? You have the power, not me."
I cannot travel to your plane.
"You can. You have the pool. I'm sure you didn't go through all that trouble to build a one-way street."
Use your tiny brain, Alliant. What is a pool? A collection of water.
Simon shrugged. "So?"
I am the king of Hell. I command fire. I cannot travel by water.
The Devil’s reflection shook violently like a puddle in Jurassic Park. The surface took on his own appearance as it calmed.
But the voice was still there.
Together, Simon Alliant. The only way.
Bristol
the distant past
Zophiel would not make the same mistake with this body as he had with the old man Taylor.
All that jumping in and out had prematurely aged that first host. At times, he missed his angelic form—missed the flying, the all-seeing, the graces that ran through his being, ready to fall like rain upon the humankind.
He could not abandon this host without fear of destroying another earthly anchor. This human had advantages over the others: money and land and influence.
All the more, Luminea looked keenly at him, smiling in a beguiling way that made his pulse race. She seemed to delight in touching him, simple brushes of a hand, a slight press of her side when they passed close.
She made his body respond in a passionate, ferocious way. Each day, his obsession—his addiction—grew stronger, deeper. All thought of being God's Spy, the angel Zophiel, dimmed and faded when he stood in the luminescence of this enrapturing woman.
He was fallen and he didn't even know it.
Hidden inside a mortal body, concealed by flesh—other angels could not find him. He hid in plain sight of all Creation. While the mortal body allowed him to stand upon the earth, he retained much of his angelic power. He simply did not need it when Luminea was near.